Empty Bottles
by Feather Ice
Summary: When a mission turns into a massacre, Captain Kirk takes it hard. Luckily there's no wound that Doctor McCoy won't try to fix, and no length he won't go to for his friends.


Points of Interest: Contains rather my rather pretentious emulations of military life, angst and childishness among members of the Enterprise, and incredibly vague implications that I'm sure will go right over your heads. It's still mostly straightforward, though. Enjoy.

Empty Bottles

When Leonard McCoy saw his friend and captain again, he didn't recognize him. His facial features hadn't changed, and even though his hair was so thickly covered in dust that it might have been red to the best of anyone's observations, this had never been a problem before. Maybe it was the way he carried himself or laughed or spoke, but there had never been one time when Bones recognized James Kirk by the color of his _shirt_.

Hollow wasn't even the right word for it.

After the glow of the transporter faded and Jim took his first betraying gasp of air, the others moved alongside him, forward, hurrying. Some of them were bleeding, and McCoy went to them first, wielding sedative and painkillers. When he did turn to Jim, swaying lightly where he stood, it was to yell at him to get_** off**_ the damn transporter because there were _**wounded**_ and they _**needed**_ that last slot. Around then he noticed it was Captain Kirk standing there, looking blanker than Spock at his most alien. McCoy took a single step towards him, momentarily forgetting his patient, but the aforementioned Vulcan got there first, taking the captain by the sleeve and pulling him gently away from the transporter. Whatever Spock said next was too quiet to hear. It seemed to do the trick, though, because Jim blinked twice, then laughed, suddenly Jim again, clapping Spock on the back and striding out the doors to attend some duty or another.

McCoy really didn't have an excuse. It looked like Jim. It behaved at least somewhat like Jim. It even walked like Jim. But it just… wasn't. And judging from the pensive look on Spock's face, he wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

McCoy's patient let out a rather impatient moan and the surgeon winced guiltily, finishing his preliminary treatment and foisting the injured man off on a nearby nurse so as to make his way towards Spock. Spock saw him coming, and before he could open his mouth was saying in a very calm, reassuring tone of voice, "I do not know."

"Don't know what?" McCoy snapped, struggling between his medical oath and a sudden, inexplicable urge to throttle the Vulcan. "That Jim Kirk is not in his right mind? That I just watched my friend's body go waltzing by me with _someone else_ in his head?!"

Spock frowned, probably displeased by McCoy's disrespect to a superior officer. The doctor could have cared less. "I assure you, that is the real Captain Kirk. There is no cause for alarm…"

He trailed off as McCoy took a rather intimidating step closer. "You mean to tell me," the doctor growled, Southern accent growing more pronounced by the second, "That you didn't see ANYTHING wrong with that just now?"

"I was with him for the duration of the exploration," Spock protested, looking confused, as though he hadn't the faintest idea why McCoy was so upset. "The mission was difficult and many were wounded. However, I do not believe that the captain sustained any injuries." There was a pause as they both mulled this over. "…It may be possible that he is hiding some injury from us. His behavior indicates—"

"Yeah, thank you," McCoy muttered, pulling away to head out the doors and after Jim. He didn't need a dissertation; he needed to know what was wrong so he could fix it. Plus he'd had all he could stand of Spock for one lifetime. Staying close to him would not be wise—the med labs were running out of beds.

He flipped a mental coin as to whether Jim reported to the bridge or went to his quarters (sick bay was certainly out of the question; Jim probably had primal instincts of avoidance by now), and decided to go with the quarters. Jim had always had some sort of supernatural belief that a few hours of sleep in his quarters would heal broken ribs, repair a laceration the length of Bones' arm, and generally make water flow with wine.

McCoy banged his fist exceptionally hard against the door, cursed, and then kicked at it alternatively. "This is Doctor McCoy. Open up, Jim."

No answer.

McCoy tried the switch, but it was locked. Jim was in there all right. He scowled, and thumped his palms against the door, getting the maximum discord for minimum pain. "Jim! I know you're in there! Let's see it!" Again no one answered. McCoy was about to open a com line and demand Scotty come and break the door down when it slid open, and the captain, looking surprisingly fresh, poked his head out.

"Heard you the first time, Bones," he said with an easy grin, stepping fully outside. He'd just cleaned himself off, if the blonde hair and lack of a shirt was any indication. McCoy narrowed his eyes at him. The moment of complete and total alienation from before had passed, but there was still something _off_ about him. The captain blinked a bit when McCoy continued to stare, bitterly suspicious, and apparently trying to burn a hole through his face. "Bones? You alright?"

"That's what I'm supposed to be asking," McCoy ground out, dragging his eyes away from Jim's face to check the rest of him. "You didn't look so good coming off the transporter. I thought I should… Check on you…?" The good doctor was suddenly aware of how very ridiculous his suspicions were. He what? Saw Jim coming off of that stupid transporter—probably scrambled his brainwaves or something—and then what? Saw Jim looking tired, was too tired himself, and had an emotional incident all over the ship's first officer?

Lovely.

"Now see here, Jim," McCoy asserted, regaining his wind somewhat. "I know you'll tell me that I'm wrong and you're immortal or something, but I've seen the folks coming up from Pazda, and I don't like the looks of it. So you're either going to come up to the med bay for a full checkup, or I'll drag you there myself, but you're going."

"Understood," Jim said, nodding his head. It was a classic Jim maneuver. So why did it seem so odd? So out of place?

McCoy wondered how badly shot his nerves were. The things done on the Pazda colonies were terrible, but he was pretty sure his medical training prepared him for it. Medical officers got put through all manner of organized and disorganized hell, to make sure they were tough enough for the job. To make sure they wouldn't break down at key moments. McCoy had been pretty good at that training too, but… was Pazda too much? For whom?

"What's this?" McCoy couldn't help but be taken aback anyway. "No dancing through protocol and authorities? No lengthy chases through the Enterprise halls? You must be feeling sick." Worry lined his throat and McCoy reached out to feel Jim's forehead (trusty tricorder still lying on the ground in the transport room where McCoy had thoughtlessly dropped it), but Jim stepped back with surprising speed, eyes widening in surprise. McCoy drew back at once, equally surprised by the reaction. Jumpy? Naw.

"I'm accepting the inevitable," Jim declared, and they both turned, looking down the hall at a sudden clamor coming from the med bay. When McCoy looked back, torn between ship duties and a duty to his confusing friend, Jim grinned. "I'm alright, Bones. And I know you won't believe me, so why don't I go by the sick bay a little later? After the…" he faltered, and suddenly it was hard to believe Jim was standing in front of him. McCoy wavered. Should he stab him with a sedative and cart him down at once? Leave him to his own devices? Spock was wrong. This was real. There was very much something the matter with Jim. "…Rush."

McCoy's eyes narrowed slightly. Jim didn't seem to notice. "I really don't think—"

"Doctor McCoy!" They both turned as footsteps rang down the hall, a senior nurse dashing towards them. He grabbed McCoy's arm. "You're needed in sick bay. It's Ensign Rick, Sir, it's real bad—"

"Understood," McCoy ground out, throwing one last wary look at Jim, who appeared to be lost in his own world. "I'm on my way. Jim, I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Jim smiled at him distractedly, nodding. "Huh? Yeah, sure, Bones. Be there in an hour." Then the doors swung shut and McCoy was chasing after the nurse into the chaos of sick bay.

Nurse Angels had been lying. It was bad. The beds were already full to overflowing. Those with minor wounds were on the floor, leaning against the walls. The room was a chorus of moans and shouted instructions, various medical apparatuses bleeping in the background. Everything smelled very strongly of antiseptic, burned hair, and blood. McCoy took a sharp breath of it at the state of the officer he'd been called in for.

"We got him stable, but he's flagging," Nurse Chapel bustled at his side, handing him his gloves and pointing out vital signs with practiced efficiency. "His blood pressure is right at the threshold and there's too much internal damage to start the regenerating process without a full surgery—"

"Got it," McCoy said, gloves already on, surveying the wound as another mountain to climb. Someone had cleaned it and put temporary tape over it to staunch the blood flow, but he could very clearly see things poking out that ought not to be poking out. "He's in shock?"

"Sedated," Nurse Chapel replied, offering a swab and precision torch. He took them quickly, checking the vitals again. "It's a miracle he's not dead, Sir…" And then he peeled the tape back and the surgery began. The _Enterprise_ melted away, narrowing into the vital signs shown on the computer, the wound, and the tools being handed to him. It was his own battlefield, against blood flow and time. And McCoy fought his battles well.

When he leaned back, Nurse Chapel was staring at him in something akin to awe, and he nodded at her. "Rick's not going anywhere. Keep a good watch on his vitals, and check him with the tricorder a few times—make sure I didn't miss anything." She nodded her compliance and then McCoy was called off again, patching someone's arm, distributing medication, informing officers they were free to go. It must have gone on for hours, far beyond the threshold of when Jim Kirk was supposed to show up, but McCoy didn't give it any thought. He couldn't. Not when good men and women were dying in front of him.

The last of the nurses filed out as the lights dimmed in simulated night. Some tried to stay, but McCoy told them very firmly to leave and come back either well-rested or gushing blood. When the doors swung shut he surveyed the room around him and his slumbering patients with a tired sort of pride. Over forty severely wounded on this mission. Six dead before they reached the Enterprise. One dead before he reached the sick bay. But three alone died once they passed through the doors and the medics took over. It was ten officers dead, but it was thirty saved. The proof was lying all around McCoy in various states of unconsciousness. McCoy sank into his seat, and was about to enter the medical report when he remembered Jim. He stood up just as the doors swished open, staring in shock as the captain stepped inside.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, picking his way carefully through the casualties. "Fell asleep. Didn't wake up until…" He blinked when he saw Bones' face. "You alright, Bones?"

"Yeah," the doctor replied automatically, and then frowned. "No. Maybe. Who knows?" He sank back into his chair with a sigh, and indicated a free chair usually meant for one of the nurses, where Jim sat. "Been a hell of a day."

Jim made a noise which almost resembled a laugh, but not quite. "You can say that again. It's kind of… overwhelming."

"Not what you signed on for?" Bones pulled a bottle of Saurian brandy out of his desk, followed by two glasses. Hoarding non-regulation foodstuffs was very clearly not allowed, and probably stupid to indulge in with the captain of a starship. Captain Kirk, though, he was one of a kind, besides being Bones' close personal friend. Jim eyed it, struggling against a recently developed moral compass, and Bones laughed. "I sure as hell could use a drink. How about you?" Jim answered by taking a glass, and Bones chuckled as he filled it. "Not what _I'm_ used to, I can tell you that. Not that you ever get used to watching people die."

Jim made that sad attempt at a laugh again, knocking the alcohol back in an instant. Bones refilled the glass without pause, draining his own. He watched Jim as he did. This was Jim—in a way. In the transporter room he hadn't been all there, it looked like. But right now he was like he'd been in his room. Just… off.

Bones got the feeling that it was nothing a tricorder would pick up.

"All those people," Jim spoke up, voice hoarse from the brandy or something else. "Just… killing each other. They're all dead. What kind of sense does that make?" He threw his drink back again. "How can something so… so…"

"Absurd?" McCoy offered, and Jim tipped his glass like he was toasting him.

"That's it. Absurd. How can they do that when they know… this is what happens?!" His arm lashed out at the room around them, angry. "They know this is what will happen. And they do it anyway! They just kill each other!"

"Christ, Jim," McCoy grunted, producing another bottle as the first began to deplete. He got the feeling they'd be needing it. "If there was an answer to that, there wouldn't be any doctors."

"So that's the answer?" Jim set his glass down empty again, but shooed McCoy away when he moved to pour some more. "There's no answer? People just do it just… because?!" Jim's voice rose so sharply a few of the drugged patients shifted, mumbling. Looking at his friend, McCoy got the feeling that if he was anyone else, Jim would have picked a fight just to hit something. He'd seen Jim pissed off of course. Easy. But never to this extent.

"Is that what you think?" He asked carefully, watching the young man glare and grimace at what was nothing more than a patch of wall.

"…I think Spock's right," Jim finally growled, snatching up his magically refilled glass and chugging it like water. "People are stupid and irrational. Emotions should just get—" he waved his hand vaguely "—thrown away."

"Now that's going a bit far," McCoy remarked, leaning back in his chair and observing the same patch of wall. "I don't think I'd like to be Vulcan. They don't drink." He grinned at Jim, but his friend didn't smile back. "You're asking me questions that people have been thinking since the Stone Age," McCoy sighed, smile falling away. "You'd think that after all this time, someone would have come up with a better answer."

Jim grunted his agreement and for a while they just sat there, staring at the walls and drinking contraband booze with only the beeps of machinery for company. Eventually McCoy broke the silence. "What's made you all conscientious all of a sudden?" He asked, tongue loosened and self-preservation instinct having dropped far enough by way of alcohol. "You're not exactly the bleeding heart type. You've seen people die before." Jim flinched, face contorting slightly. "What's different now?"

"Nothing," Jim snapped, immediately defensive. "There's nothing different. A life's a life, you know? And these men were all well-trained. They knew there was the possibility of death and they went down in the line of duty and all that. It could have been way worse, what happened out there. It _was_ way worse for a lot of people." McCoy nodded without interrupting as Jim's fists clenched. He looked like for all the world he just wanted to stop talking, but he couldn't. The words kept pouring out faster and faster. "We got a slap on the wrist compared to what was going on down there. And we stopped it—they won't, they can't—fight anymore. Not after all the people they've just slaughtered in cold blood. But they still don't see anything wrong with it. They think people are born just to die!"

"Do you?" McCoy asked quietly, surveying Jim with quiet interest. At once the captain rounded on him, eyes blazing.

"Of course I don't!" He all but shouted. "No sane person does! I never have—but…"

"It's different," McCoy filled in, pausing to drink more of the brandy, bottle emptied. He was right. They needed it. Jim stared at him, frozen, looking angry and desperate all at once. Wanting to rip something apart and scared to do it. It was a feeling McCoy knew well. "It's different when they're right in front of you, dying, than when it happens somewhere else. Shouldn't be. But that's how it is."

"…Yeah," Jim breathed, face twisting up again, and he stared into his glass. "Yes. It's different when you see a person dead after the fact, not suffering anymore. But when they look you in the eyes…" He put a hand over his own eyes, as if he could block out the memory. "When they were looking me in the eyes. When they were struggling and begging for someone to help them and there was **nothing** I could do. But I should have been able to. And they were counting on me and… I just let them die…!"

"Jim," McCoy laid a hand on his shoulder, which felt more like stone than human skin. Maybe it was a piece of the other stone that had sunk to the bottom of McCoy's stomach, weighing there like lead. His friend—the indomitable, fearless James Kirk—he was in the kind of pain no one ever deserved to feel. The kind of pain that would hollow him out and make him into something that he wasn't—something he was already becoming.

If he could have picked only one person, he would have liked to spare Jim that.

"Jim," he repeated, squeezing his shoulder. "You can't blame yourself for this."

Jim's jaw tightened, but rather than giving a straight reply, he answered, "For whatever stupid reason, I'm the _captain_."

McCoy scowled at that admission. "Yes, but you're still Jim. And unless you've developed superpowers recently, you couldn't have done anything more than you did." Jim shook his head.

"Could've done better. Should have. If I'd planned the mission better, or…"

"I have never seen anyone do a better job of planning than you and your first officer," McCoy said firmly, not trusting himself to say Spock's name rather than one of his many 'nicknames'. "And I know this ship well. If this is how many casualties we've got, then it's because your tactics and their training saved us from even more. You ask anyone on this ship and they'll tell you the same." Jim said nothing to this. "Don't kid yourself. I've never met anyone who could do a better job."

Jim mumbled something inaudible. McCoy caught the word 'excuse'.

"No, that is not an _excuse_. It's the Goddamn truth—from what I've heard just in here, the only reason these officers survived is because of you! It was a death trap down there! Don't make me say it again!" Jim stared at his drink a while longer. McCoy exhaled in frustration. "Look… Jim, I don't know what to tell you. Yes, people got hurt and died. That's just what happened. But I don't believe for one second that you didn't make the very best effort to save everyone, Starfleet or otherwise." Jim looked up at that.

"You weren't there," he said simply, but it sounded like an accusation. "How would you know?"

"Because I know you," McCoy retorted, filling both of their glasses at once. He drained his quickly and poured another one. God, he hated mushy stuff like this. "…You know back at the academy? When your big accomplishment was breaking the record for rules broken without getting expelled?" Jim nodded slowly. "Well, I believed in you then. And when you commandeered this ship right out from under the ho—Spock?" Thankfully, Jim didn't seem to notice the slip-up. "Still believed in you. And right now? I STILL believe in you." He managed to meet Jim's eye on that one. "Always have, always will. Even if it was twenty dead, or thirty, I'd know the very best effort was made."

Jim regarded him for a long moment, face neither blank nor his usual smirk. It was probably Jim at the most unguarded McCoy had ever seen him. It made him actually look his age.

"Really?" Jim asked softly, sounding like he expected McCoy to retract his statement at any moment. McCoy aimed the empty brandy bottle at him like a phaser.

"Don't say thank you," he said firmly, trying to make it clear that Jim would be hypoed into next year if he even tried it. _For months_. Jim's face reworked into a small, surprisingly heartfelt smile.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Bones," he said, and Bones 'hmph'ed, gulping down more brandy like there was no tomorrow. He was smiling a bit himself. Unguarded and unconfident, yes, but it was definitely James Kirk sitting next to him. The captain was back aboard where he belonged. All was well.

…And that was enough heart-to-hearting for one day.

In a flash McCoy had kicked the chair straight out from under Jim, who fell with a surprised squawk. He was sitting up immediately, staring at McCoy with huge eyes. The sight of his captain sitting up in outrage, dripping with the finest inebriating substance this side of the Draconus galaxy, and plainly unable to formulate a response more articulate than "you" proved too much for the good doctor. Jim just had to nudge his chair to send McCoy tumbling down, still howling with laughter.

"You," growled Jim impressively.

"Your face!" McCoy wheezed and then broke off into a rather high pitched yell as Jim upended the remaining Brandy over his head. It was decidedly cold. And it rather stung the eyes too.

"Ha," Jim said triumphantly, smirking. "How do you like that, Bones?"

"The brandy… My brandy… You _wasted_ my brandy…" McCoy murmured, shaking his head at the irrationality of it all. He looked genuinely upset, and for good reason. It was a good vintage—cost him a nice chunk of change too. Jim's smirk slowly faded into something resembling contrition.

"Oh… Uh, sorry. I wasn't—**GAHCK**!"

The remaining contents of McCoy's glass found themselves poured over Jim's head.

McCoy grinned. Jim's eyes narrowed into slits. "And how do _you_ like that?!" The doctor crowed just before Jim tackled McCoy, intending to wrestle until honor was satisfied, or they both passed out, because McCoy was feeling more than a little tipsy. It was probably for this reason that he fell backward, shoulder banging loudly against his desk. One of the patients actually sat up, glaring at the two men who looked back guiltily.

"We're trying not to die here!" The officer shouted irritably, half-heartedly chucking a handful of miscellaneous pills at the two of them. There were a few groans of agreement. "Shut up!"

And then Jim and McCoy were both laughing too hard to do anything but sit there and try not to choke on brandy.

It was still in the early hours of morning, Earth time, before six hundred hours when the doors to the sick bay swung open and a pair of immaculately polished boots stepped in. The door shut and the boots continued on their way, coming to rest in front of two men, sprawled on the floor and absolutely reeking of Saurian brandy.

Mr. Spock's face briefly creased with disapproval. The chief medical officer, no less. He was supposed to be watching over his patients (although a quick glance about the room proved that they were all alive and well). He also suspected it was Leonard McCoy who had been in possession of the beverages, in violation of three different regulations—but at the moment, it was not McCoy that Spock had come for. Right on cue, captain Kirk let out a particularly loud snore, shifting so that his arms were draped at an even more precarious angle over the chief medical officer and the foot of Officer Schwartz's bed.

Spock knelt beside the captain and shook him carefully. He stepped back as the captain slowly blinked himself awake, groaning in protest. "Spo'?" He demanded in a questioning tone, and the first officer assumed he was being addressed. "Wh'z 'ere four o' you?" While Spock tried to decipher that, the captain regained at least some lucidity and promptly clapped his hands against the sides of his head. "Ow," he groaned. Spock took it as an invitation.

"Captain," the Vulcan addressed. Captain Kirk stumbled to his feet, face screwed up in displeasure. Doctor McCoy grumbled some unrecognizable protest at the sudden loss of warmth. "Your shift on the bridge has…" Spock blinked as Kirk walked straight past him without so much as a nod, and began methodically turning the medicinal cabinets of sick bay upside down. Again Spock blinked, unsure as to whether his next move was to repeat his statement or set his phaser on stun. Kirk found what he was looking for anyway, popping two pills into his mouth and leaning against the shelf with a relieved sigh. Spock took a wary step forward. "Captain?"

"Wait," the captain said, and not in a voice that inspired confidence in one's superior officer. Through great force of will, Spock kept his mouth shut. A long moment stretched between them and when Kirk opened his eyes again, he looked sentient. "Ah," he said with relish. "That's way better." Spock continued to watch him, and he suddenly looked sheepish. "What, these? They're just detox pills." He grinned. "Really, really fast-acting ones."

Spock said nothing. He looked the captain up and down, from head to foot, taking in the usual slouch, the cocky smirk, and clear eyes. He blinked. The smirk faded somewhat, and Kirk fidgeted.

"No, seriously. That's all they are. Look, you can see the label if you really want to—"

"That will be sufficient," Spock declared, straightening to attention. "I have come to inform you that your shift on the bridge has begun and your presence is requested."

Kirk swayed slightly at this new information. "So… it's already started?"

"Of course not, Captain," Spock assured him, an eyebrow raised. "For what reason would I permit a gap between shifts? No, it appears you have… ten minutes."

Kirk stared at Spock, and then glanced at himself. His uniform was in disarray, his eyes were rimmed with red, and he smelled mightily of alcohol. Back to Spock. "Damn," the captain decided, and then darted out of the room with speed that his first officer previously would not have believed possible. Spock watched him go with an inkling of amusement around the corners of his mouth, but did not follow. He returned to the problem of Officer McCoy, still stretched across the floor, and still leaving his patients unattended. He regarded the man for a moment and then bent down again to wake him up. McCoy took a good deal more convincing than Kirk, and when he did, there was no mad dash for hangover remedies. He simply glared.

"What do you want?" He asked in a voice far more suited to "who dares disturb my slumber?" Spock's eyebrows rose.

"You have left your patients without care for several hours, Dr. McCoy," he replied evenly. "The situation needs rectifying."

"Don't tell me how to run my sickbay, Mr. Spock!" McCoy rumbled, shifting into a more upright position, although he made no move to stand up. **He** was the doctor here. All the patients had been in stable condition before he'd left them to start a medical log and if, for some inconceivable reason, anything had gone wrong, the machines would have woken him up at once. He knew this. Well, he was reasonably sure. Well, no one had died. "Do you see any fatalities?"

"I do not," Spock admitted, looking around the room again. "Everything appears to be in working order… It is better than I expected." He smiled faintly and McCoy bristled at a perceived insult. Before he realized… Spock was _smiling_.

The entire world seemed to take a breath.

Still smiling, Spock inclined his head towards the doctor. "I believe… we have you to thank for that."

_We?_ McCoy blinked as he pondered it, mouth running on automatic. "Well of course it's in 'working order'. I run this place after all."

"Nevertheless." Spock stood at attention again, his voice growing, if possible, more solemn. "On behalf of the Enterprise… and on a personal note as well. Well done."

McCoy stared at him, confused, and getting the feeling he was missing something important. Spock either didn't know or didn't care, so McCoy just took at face value. He managed a weak nod, fairly certain that the universe was about to implode. "I see… er… thank you, Mr. Spock. Didn't know you cared."

For once Spock spared him the emotional infallibility of Vulcans, choosing to nod instead and stride out of the room. McCoy was left scratching his head and trying to figure out how to clean the brandy dried onto the floor and the raid on his medicine cabinets. At least someone had woken Kirk up. His computer informed him someone was trying to send him a message, and McCoy figured a little procrastinating never hurt. He shuffled over to it. "Onscreen," he ordered, and Captain Kirk's grinning face filled the screen.

"You're not very good at pep talks, by the way," he informed him. Bones snorted, but grinned back.

"And you owe me a new bottle of brandy."


End file.
